


Transmogrification

by dearcecil



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Gen, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-31
Updated: 2011-10-31
Packaged: 2017-10-27 06:35:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearcecil/pseuds/dearcecil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tavish Degroot gets bitten by a werewolf and becomes one himself. He deals with it. When it threatens to interfere with his work, everyone else deals with it, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SirKai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SirKai/gifts).



As Tavish lay on the ground, his chest and shoulder pouring blood onto the dead leaves beneath him, he comforted himself with the thought that he had, at least, lived a fairly exciting life. He would have liked to experience more explosions, and God, yes, he would have liked to steal his eye back from the spirit who'd stolen it, but all in all it had been a very good life indeed. He sank his fingers into the loose soil around him, hissing when the movement pulled at his injuries and made everything burn, and slowly, his right eye went as dark as his left one.

Tavish raised his hand to his forehead and groaned. "No more of the fuckin' benders," he promised himself as he sat up gingerly. He looked down: Lying in dirt, shirt torn, blood staining his clothes, missing his shoes

Blood staining his clothes?

He slapped his hands to his chest, running them down frantically over his stomach, up to his shoulders, and oh, oh, that had really happened, hadn't it? The wolf had really happened. "Fuckin' a," Tavish cried out, and it was only then that he noticed the rasping of his throat. He felt as though he had swallowed a cheese grater, and knew it came from having screamed while the wolf if it had been a wolf; the thing had been bloody huge tore him open. He hunched over his legs, staring at his bare feet, and pressed a hand to his shoulder.

It should have been ripped apart. He knew this as surely as he knew that he was lying on the ground in the middle of the woods, as surely as he knew his own name. But as Tavish looked down at himself, he could see only his dried blood on unbroken skin: No new scrapes, nor cuts, nor scars. He still had the scar from his liver transplant, and he still had bruises from where he'd drunkenly bumped into things, but the lacerations he could remember receiving the night before had simply disappeared.

"Christ," Tavish moaned, and he hunched over once more, turned to the side, and vomited.

* * *

It only took a few days to figure out what had happened. Tavish had grown up knee deep in the paranormal, had spent over a decade learning about the supernatural. His own left eye had been possessed and stolen, so of course he was experienced, of course he was able to piece things together. It wasn't like werewolves were uncommon to begin with; everyone and their mother had heard stories about them.

Besides, the fur growing over where he'd been wounded, combined with the sudden cravings for raw meat, were very telling. Then there was the frantic yapping of his neighbor's dog when he returned to his flat. And the fact that he had a good enough sense of smell, now, to know what everyone else had eaten for breakfast. And the fact that his calendar had the night he'd been attacked on listed as a full moon night.

Scratching at his shoulder, Tavish stuck his kettle beneath his sink and set about making tea. He had considered getting drunk, but really, he asked himself, should a fledgling werewolf be getting drunk? What if the alcohol somehow triggered a transformation, and he changed and gave into his desire to tear the neighbor's pomeranian limb from limb? The landlord would never let him keep his flat if he went around murdering animals.

He set the kettle on the stove, flipped his calendar to the next month to see when the full moon would come around again, and sighed. "Well, at least it's not on Christmas."

His kettle whistled, and he flipped through the newspaper while his tea steeped, steadfastly ignoring the pomeranian still barking three doors down.

* * *

After a week had passed, Tavish gave in to temptation and did two things:

First, he picked up some depilatory cream at the store, and got rid of the hair and fur on his chest and shoulder. He felt barren, and rather emasculated, but he could hardly stand to look at himself in the mirror with the fur on. Perhaps it was for the best.

Second, he went on another bender. Tea was only good for so long, and he wanted a distraction. Thinking about bleeding out on dry, cracked leaves was not a fun way to pass the time. Through his drunken haze as he tossed Laura (or Lauren, or maybe Lisa? Elizabeth? Erin?) on the bed, he thought that removing his hair might be all right if it always ended with women stroking his chest reverently, and babbling on about body hair being disturbing and coarse and distracting.

* * *

Eventually, December came, and the full moon was five days away, and Tavish nearly broke everything in his flat because good lord, the pain and the rage and the restlessness had all hit him so suddenly and so completely that he needed to do something, do anything; there was smoke in his brain, a heady haze that permeated every corner, and he couldn't tell if he wanted to fight or fuck or just start screaming and tearing off his skin; he couldn't tell if he even had skin anymore or if he was made of fire, made of fur

Four days before the full moon, he spent twelve hours stuck in front of the toilet, a twitching, quivering mess, heaving until there was nothing left inside and then continuing to heave, dry and painful and terrible. His skin was greyed and flat and he felt like he was being stabbed all over. The pomeranian kept barking.

Three days before the full moon, he slept like death. He dreamed of running, feeling the wind between his fur, rushing past his ears and snout; he dreamed of the hunt, of pouncing, of feeling blood between his teeth and claws. In his dream, he bit the pomeranian's neck, and it finally shut up.

Two days before the full moon, his body felt hotter than the sun, and he gripped his mug so tightly that it shattered and he spilled tea over his hand. It felt cold, despite being fresh, and he could barely stop himself from pouring the boiled water in the kettle on his skin to alleviate the heat; logic still trumped desire, and he jumped into the bath, and he let the water embrace him. The pomeranian kept barking.

One day before the full moon, he heard his neighbor shut her door with the dog still inside, and he gritted his teeth until his jaw felt like it would shatter, and the pomeranian still kept barking, and he opened his door, and he opened his neighbor's door, and he grabbed the pomeranian by its neck and he held it until it shut up. He stared at its motionless body, listened to the rush of blood in his ears, and he left. He walked from the city to the woods.

On the day of the full moon, he transformed, and oh, it was grand. It was horrible. It was everything.

On the day after the full moon, Tavish woke at the crack of dawn. He dragged himself back to his flat, clothes still torn and blood-soaked. No one saw him. He could hear his neighbor crying in her flat. He sank onto his bed, and slept the whole day through, feeling empty.

Two days after the full moon, Tavish finally moved when he heard a knock at his door, and he opened it to see a petite woman dressed smartly in a skirt and blazer, her glasses taking up much of her face and making her look so, so young. She smiled at him, unfazed by the blood and the torn clothing and the fur peeking up from under his collar, and she offered him a job.

Tavish accepted.

Three days after the full moon, Tavish was on a plane to the United States, and he had almost nothing with him. He clutched the tiny bottle of airline booze and he was glad.

* * *

Two years, Tavish reflected as he grabbed the newspaper from the kitchen counter, could do a lot for a man.

Well, it hadn't been exactly two years, he amended as he sat at the table and scanned the front page. He had been bitten in November, and it was only September now, but twenty-two months hardly seemed different from twenty-four. It helped that he had five jobs in which destruction was key, where he could take out his frustrations. It also helped that he was fabulously wealthy, and living on a property large enough for him to transform on without much risk. What didn't help was the fact that he was living with his mum, who was as nosy as she was blind.

"And why aren't you working today, eh? Another 'morning off,' is it? More like you've been laid off, I suppose!"

Tavish looked over the top of the paper at his mother, and smiled despite her glare in his general direction. "It's me one mornin' off, Mum, same as every month." He was glad she hadn't noticed that all of his days off came directly after the full moon. He realized she was blind, and so couldn't possibly have seen the moon and figured him out, but it was still a relief; part of him believed, even now, that his mother could figure out anything he did.

She sniffed. "I suppose one day off between five jobs is all right, then. Not nearly the best you could do, and still a bloody disappointment considering, but good enough for now."

Tavish stood as the kettle started whistling, and made his mother a cup of tea. "You're goin' soft on me, Mum." He laughed as made his own cup of tea, and set them on the tray with the kettle, walking to the couch his mother was seated upon.

"If you call me old, I'll take your other eye. Make you look like a proper Demoman once and for all."

Tavish bit back a groan as he sank onto the couch himself, his body still sore from being pushed to the limit last night during his transformation. It didn't wreck him as it used to, but he still ached like nothing else. "Who'll make your tea when I lose the other eye, hm?"

His mum scoffed. "Eight million dollars a year, and you're willing to buy a mansion, but not an assistant? You've no priorities, lad."

Tavish laughed and pressed his mother's tea cup gently into her hand.


	2. Chapter 2

It was some sick twist of fate that had the full moon falling on Halloween, Tavish thought as he looked at the calendar. Sicker still was the fact that BLU was pushing harder than usual, and it was almost certain that he would be on base during his transformation.

He supposed he should give his team some warning, but what was he supposed to say? "When I was younger, I went off on a bit of a romp, got arse over kettle drunk, and what d'you know, a gigantic werewolf came and bit me, and now I carry its curse! Such silly days, those."

Tavish shook his head. He had to tell someone, of course, but he wouldn't do it as stupidly as that.

* * *

"...and what d'you know, a gigantic werewolf came and bit me, and now I carry its curse!" Tavish grinned at Sniper before tipping his bottle of whiskey back and finishing it off.

Sniper stared at him, slackjawed, then stared at his bottle of beer for a moment, as though wondering how drunk he really was. "Right."

"Such silly days, those," Tavish sighed.

Sniper set his bottle down slowly, then reached over and did the same to Tavish's whiskey. They were sitting in Sniper's roost on base, empty cans and bottles all around them, and Tavish laughed at the creaking of the wood when Sniper stood. He stumbled, nearly falling from the roost, but righted himself. "I'm fuckin' pissed," he muttered. "'Round the goddamn oak." He crossed the small space and fell to his knees, digging through a cardboard box, and came back to sit beside Tavish, a book clutched in his hands.

 _The Classic Study of Lycanthropy_ , it said.

"You're a good man," Tavish slurred, and he slumped against Sniper as the man flipped through the book. The text swam before Tavish's eyes, but he could see illustrations of wolves and men being torn apart and moons, and he barked out a laugh before he fell asleep.

* * *

"So I hear you're a werewolf," Engineer said the next morning as he peeled an orange in the base kitchen.

"There's the strangest conversation opener I've ever heard," Tavish said. He took a swig from his flask.

"Yeah, I don't suppose it would come up often." Engineer tore the orange in half, and ate two orange slices before speaking up again. "For how long?"

"Oh, couple o' years. I'm fair used to it by now, to be honest. Does it bother you?"

Engineer smiled. "Well, that's good; better to adjust to things, I s'pose. And, well, I've seen a fair few things in my time that I reckon are worse than a little monthly problem. Lived down near Mexico damn near all my life, so between the crying ghosts and the blood-sucking rodents, this seems all right." He popped the last orange slice in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "Do you need any help breaking the news to the rest of the team?"

Tavish felt warmed by Engineer's easy acceptance. "No, it's fine, I'll figure it out on me own. Can't be that bad, can it?"

Engineer shrugged and stood to drop the orange peel in the trash. "Sure hope not."

* * *

Medic nearly stabbed him before Heavy stepped forward, holding the doctor back by his shoulders as he cursed steadily in German.

"I suppose I'll just come back then," Tavish said quickly, and he ducked out from the medical bay.

* * *

"Don't let it bother you," Spy said as he appeared from nowhere. He took a drag from his cigarette, and fixed Tavish with a piercing gaze. "He's German."

"That explains everything, does it?" Tavish drank until his flask was empty, and leaned against the wall of the hallway.

"Yes." Spy put a hand on Tavish's shoulder, the same on that had been bitten, and kept his fingers light as though he could see the wound. "It does."

"...well, all right, then."

* * *

"Bullshit," Scout accused. "Fuckin' prove it, man. I don't believe in that shit, you gotta fuckin' prove it."

"Scout, the moon's not for two weeks. How am I supposed to prove anything to you?"

Scout frowned, rubbing his chin as he concentrated, but Pyro sat up in their seat. "Hudda hudda hudda," they said. Tavish had no clue what it meant, but apparently Scout and Pyro were psychically connected (or just spending too much time together), because the boy snapped his fingers and nodded in agreement.

"Yeah, show us your bite wound, and then we'll see "

"There's no scar. It healed right after; every wound I get as a wolf heals." Tavish pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'd show you me fur, but I take it all off."

Scout snorted. "What, you shave your chest?"

"Of course not. I use a cream, it's easier." Tavish ignored Scout's hysterics as well as he could, and looked at Pyro, who was either sympathetic or a bit constipated. Tavish had never really mastered the art of interpreting their body language.

"Hudda hrmph hudda? Hudda hudda? Hudda hrmph hudda hudda, hrmph hudda hrmph hurr hudda." They leaned forward, watching him with the glassy eyes of their gasmask, and Tavish could only furrow his brow in confusion.

"Man," Scout sighed. "Oh, fuck, _man_." He wiped tears of mirth from his eyes. "But yeah, that's a good question, Pyro."

"...sorry, what's a good question?"

"What's the transforming thing like? How's it feel? I figure, if you're really changin' all the time, you can probably tell us all about it. And we'll know it's true if it sounds true! Right?"

"Hudda!"

Tavish rubbed his hands over his face, then resigned himself to story time with Scout and Pyro. "Well. It's bloody awful." He wasn't sure what else there was to say, but Scout motioned impatiently for him to continue, so he leaned forward and thought, staring down at his boots and imagining them as his paws. "It's like being torn apart and put together inside out. I'm still mostly in control, but there's a part of me, sort of pressing in from the back, that's just violent. Completely violent. So I can run around a bit, even up on me two legs like normal, but the killing " He paused.

"Hudda?" Pyro prompted after a moment.

"There's just a bit of me that needs the blood." Tavish rubbed his hands together, thinking of his claws. "But mostly, I'm myself, only covered in fur and with some wolf bits. Ears and such."

The three of them were silent.

"...that's fucking cool," Scout said finally. "Just don't eat me, dog-man."

"Wolf," Tavish corrected.

"Wolf-man, all right, fine. Either way you got fur."

* * *

Medic was much more rational the second time Tavish approached him, but Tavish suspected he was only so because his weapons were confiscated, and Heavy was sitting beside him. "So," Medic said, sipping his tea. "A werewolf."

"Yes."

"My fourteenth-great-grandmother was killed by a werewolf." He sipped his tea again. "In Greifswald."

"Er. Sorry."

"Well, it's not your fault," Medic said with a sniff, "as I am sure you did not know the offender. This was in the seventeenth century, of course, when the werewolves there were still alive." He smiled wickedly. "They are all dead now. Brutally slaughtered, their bodies burned like trash."

Tavish laughed shakily.

"Do you find extermination funny?"

"Um "

"So do I," Medic said, putting his tea cup on its saucer with a clack that echoed through the room.

Tavish turned tail, retreating from the room before Medic's scrutiny could kill him somehow.

* * *

Heavy found Tavish that night, and raised his eyebrows, silently offering Tavish a bottle of vodka. "Thanks," Tavish said.

"Doktor is touchy," Heavy said lightly as he drank from his own bottle. "Holds grudge."

"I gathered as much." Tavish swished vodka in his mouth, and it burned pleasantly. "Do you think he'd forgive me if I let him do some studying?"

Heavy roared with laughter. "He would remove your limbs, maybe." He clapped Tavish on the back. "But do not worry, is not so bad. Respawn will put you back together."

Tavish groaned. They drank together for a bit, staring up at the moon as it hung above the base. Nine days until the change, Tavish thought, but only four days before the mania, and then would come the sickness, and the sleeping, and the burn, and the rage He cut off that line of thought. "Why are you all right with this? If you don't mind me asking."

Heavy squinted at his hands, then looked to Tavish. "In Russia, we have two kinds. One is not wanting to transform, other is wanting to. And one who is not wanting... he is good. He is only changing because of Devil. And one who is wanting, he is bad." He smiled. "You? You are not bad."

Tavish was touched, but he snorted. "I kill people for a living. Enthusiastically. Blow 'em to bits."

Heavy waved his hand dismissively. "Bah! Respawn will put them back together."

* * *

"And so, I'm a werewolf," Tavish finished saying to Soldier. The man had been holed up somewhere, likely formulating a shoddy strategy to take down BLU, and Tavish had spilled his secret before Soldier could disappear again.

Soldier tilted his helmet back and stared at him. "Do you think I'm an idiot?"

Yes. "No."

"I figured you out in the first two months," Soldier said, curling his lip. "The post-full moon vacations? The flu shit every month? The Nair in your barracks? Come on, man, what do you take me for, a baboon!" He let his helmet fall over his eyes again, and stormed away from Tavish, muttering under his breath about BLUs, before coming to a sudden halt. He turned and impaled Tavish with his gaze. "The full moon! The thirty-first!" He rushed back, and grabbed Tavish's head in excitement, locking their eyes together and absolutely ruining Tavish's sense of personal space. "You're going to change, and you're going to eat them!"

"I can't," Tavish protested.

"Don't get moral on me, Private!"

"No, I mean I can't, they'll all turn into bloody werewolves," Tavish said.

"Oh." Soldier let go of him, and frowned. "Right."

"Yes, right."

"Damn."

* * *

Five days before the full moon, Tavish tore apart his pillow, and stalked through the base, and he nearly murdered Scout before Heavy stepped between them and gripped his arms and oh, a fight he understood, a brawl he could get into; he threw himself into it, struggling against the huge Russian, and for the first time the fog in his brain cleared enough for him to see the need to fight and rip and tear and kill and punch and kick and shout and nothing else, complete tunnel vision, and he made Heavy bleed and he felt his arm break and then his neck was between the man's hands and

Four days before the full moon, he bowed before the porcelain throne while Spy watched him, smoking a cigarette and rolling him onto his side before he could choke on his own vomit. Engineer walked in between his fits, and forced him to drink, so he could vomit up something other than blood.

Three days before the full moon, he slept like he was in a coma. He dreamed of running, feeling the wind between his fur, rushing past his ears and snout; he dreamed of standing on his hind legs, and masquerading as a man, and leaping on his prey before it could decide whether he was human or not; he dreamed of the hunt, and he dreamed of explosions, and of his claws and of his guns and of his teeth and of his bombs. In his dream, his fur peeled from his skin, leaving him all blood and muscle and bone; in real life, Medic cut him open while humming "lasst uns froh und munter sein."

Two days before the full moon, his skin was on fire, and his flask crumpled in his hand. Sniper prised it from his grip, put a hand on his back, and led him to his van. Scout and Pyro were waiting, kicking the dirt and playing with matches, and he put out the tiny fires with his bare fingers. They drove with the windows down, Scout chattering ceaselessly, and they stopped at a lake, and he jumped into it with all his clothes on while Sniper drank a beer and Pyro grilled burgers from the back of the van and Scout tripped over his pants. He ate his burger raw.

One day before the full moon, he heard Soldier planning how to kill the BLUs, and he ground his teeth together until he could take no more, and Soldier kept murmuring from the room down the hall, and he opened his door, and he got his bombs, and he walked to the BLU Base, and he littered their hallways with sticky bombs, and he threw a grenade directly into their medical bay, and he blew them all up, not bothering to move as the blast engulfed him. He woke up in the Respawn room, listened to the buzz of conversation between his teammates, and the announcer's voice rang through the base. He walked out to fight a day early.

On the day of the full moon, he transformed, and oh, it was grand.

It was horrible.

It was everything.

* * *

On the day after the full moon, the sun rose, and Tavish turned back to himself while conscious for the first time, and he laughed, because they had won.


End file.
